At my wedding, my sister hugged me and whispered, ‘Push the cake now.’ Seconds later, she dragged me out, hissing, ‘Run. You have no idea what he had planned for you tonight.’

The gallery opening in Makati was crowded, noisy, and pretentious… exactly the kind of place I, Maya, usually avoided. I was a struggling artist—an oil abstract painter critics called “promising,” but buyers dismissed as “confusing.”

 

I stood in a corner, gripping a plastic cup of cheap white wine, watching people walk past my work without a glance.

Then David walked in.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome—though his features were the type you only see on magazine covers. It was the way he moved, with a quiet dominance that seemed to part the crowd. He walked straight toward my darkest, most cryptic piece, Blue Void, a painting I’d priced ridiculously high so no one would buy it.

“Magnificent,” he said, turning toward me. His eyes were a stunning, icy blue.
“It captures what it feels like to drown in open air. I need it.”

“It’s actually not for sale,” I stammered.

“Double the price,” he replied, smiling.
“Consider it my excuse to meet the artist with the saddest eyes in this room.”

That was how it all began.

The next six months were a whirlwind of what I now recognize as love bombing. At the time, it felt like destiny. David was perfect. A Manila-based venture capitalist with endless resources and even more charm. He filled my tiny Pasig studio with imported peonies. Flew me to Paris because I once mentioned craving a specific croissant. Heard my dreams and exploited my insecurities. He made me feel like the center of the universe.

My friends were jealous. My parents were relieved I’d finally found “stability.”

Only my older sister, Sarah, seemed unmoved.

Sarah was a sharp-tongued, pragmatic lawyer in Quezon City—someone who viewed the world through risk and liability. While everyone swooned over David, she watched him like a hawk.

“He’s too perfect, Maya,” she warned one night over barako coffee in my kitchen.
“No one is that polished. He feels… scripted.”

“You’re being cynical,” I snapped. “Why can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous?”

The accusation silenced her—but didn’t erase the deep worry in her eyes.

The wedding day arrived like a crescendo. The venue was a glass-walled garden estate in Tagaytay filled with thousands of white orchids. I stood on the platform in a custom silk gown, holding David’s hand. We were the golden couple.

When it was time to cut the cake—a seven-tier tower of fondant and gold leaf—David smiled at me.

“Ready, love?”

His hand rested over mine on the silver knife. I looked at him with full trust, thinking my life had finally found its safe harbor.

Then Sarah walked onto the stage.

Everyone thought she was coming to congratulate me. She hugged me tightly. But the moment her arms wrapped around me, I felt it—she was trembling with a fear so deep it transferred to me.

“Sarah?” I whispered.

She didn’t let go. Instead, she knelt, pretending to fix the train of my gown, hiding her face from David and the guests.

Her hand clamped onto my ankle—hard, painful. She leaned up, her lips brushing my ear. Her whisper was cold, stripped of emotion.

“Don’t cut the cake. Push it. Now. If you want to survive tonight.”

My breath stopped.

I pulled back to look at her, ready to accuse her of being dramatic—crazy, even.

But then I looked past her… and saw David.

He wasn’t watching me with love.
He wasn’t watching Sarah.

He was staring at his watch. Jaw tight. Impatient. When his eyes finally returned to the cake, a small, cold smile curved on his lips—like a hunter waiting for the trap to spring.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice lower, stripped of warmth.
“Cut deep. I can’t wait for you to taste the first bite. The icing is… special.”

His hand no longer felt like affection. It felt like a shackle.

Sarah’s warning echoed in my head.

Push it.

I didn’t think.

Instinct took over.

Instead of lowering the knife, I shifted my weight and slammed my hip into the cake cart.

CRASH.

The seven-tier tower wobbled… then toppled, exploding across the marble floor. Fondant shattered like ceramic. Frosting and gold leaf splattered across the front row. David’s expensive tuxedo and my gown were soaked in destruction.

Silence.
The entire room frozen.
Even the string quartet stopped mid-note.

David didn’t move.

A streak of frosting slid down his cheek.

His mask fell away—revealing pure, feral rage.

“You stupid bitch!” he roared, raising his hand like he’d strike me in front of everyone.

Sarah didn’t wait.

She kicked off her heels, grabbed my wrist—

“RUN!”

We ran—two sisters, barefoot, tearing through the ruins of a fairy tale. We slipped on frosting, stumbled over shattered sugar, and bolted not toward the main door, but the service entrance Sarah had scouted earlier.

“STOP THEM!” David shouted.
Not like a groom.
Like a commander.

The “security guards” he hired—men I thought were for crowd control—pulled out weapons. Not guns, but tasers and batons.

Mercenaries.
Not staff.

We burst into the kitchen, startling chefs. Sarah shoved over a rack of pans, creating a metallic avalanche.

“Sarah! What is happening??” I gasped.

“JUST RUN!”

But David had already forced the doors open.
He pulled a tactical radio from his tuxedo pocket.

“Code Red. The asset is fleeing. Seal the perimeter. I want them alive. Break their legs if you have to—just keep the faces intact.”

The asset.

We reached the loading dock, night air slapping my face. Sarah’s old sedan was parked facing the exit.

She shoved me into the passenger seat and dove behind the wheel.

A mercenary slammed a baton into the window. It exploded inward, glass slicing my arms. I screamed.

The engine roared.

Sarah floored it.

The open door hit the attacker, sending him spinning into the dark. Tires screeched as we tore out of the lot.

Ten minutes of silence.

Sarah weaving through traffic like a trained driver, checking the rearview mirror every second. Wind whipped through the broken window.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why did he call me an asset?”

Sarah didn’t answer. She reached under her seat, pulled out a manila folder and a small recorder, and tossed them into my lap.

“I went to his condo this morning,” she said. “Something felt off about his ‘business trips’. Press play.”

I did.

Crackling audio.
David’s voice.

“Don’t worry, Boss. My debt is cleared tonight. She’s perfect—no strong family ties, clean medical history. And since she’ll be my legal wife, no one will file a missing person report after our ‘honeymoon.’”

A distorted voice:

“And the delivery?”

David:

“Tonight. The top tier of the cake is loaded with ketamine—strong dose. She’ll collapse at the reception. I’ll take her to the suite. Bring the van to the back. You can pass her through the southern ports by morning. Harvest her organs or sell her to the Eastern European rings—I don’t care. Just erase the ₱280 million.”

The recording ended.

I sat frozen.

All the flowers, the flights, the romance—

Nothing but investment.

I wasn’t a bride.

I was inventory.

“He… he was going to sell me?” I whispered.

“He was going to kill you,” Sarah said, voice breaking. “He’s not a prince, Maya. He’s a cornered rat.”

We drove straight to the police station.

I walked in wearing a ruined wedding gown, glittering with broken glass, holding the evidence of my own murder attempt.

The officers tested the icing sample Sarah had taken from the fallen cake.

The kit turned dark purple.

Positive for a lethal dose of ketamine.

Meanwhile, back at the venue, David stood on a chair telling guests:

“My poor Maya has had a breakdown. Please go home—I must find her.”

He was clearing the room.

Preparing for the hunt.

Then—

Sirens.

SWAT units stormed the estate.

The police captain walked in, followed by Sarah—and me.

The room gasped.

David froze.

He ran toward me, pretending concern.

“Maya! Thank God! Love, you’ve had an episode—”

I stepped forward.

Slapped him.
Hard.
The sound cracked like a gunshot.

“The show’s over, David,” I said coldly. “Your debt is paid. Now you’ll pay yours—with twenty years in federal prison.”

Officers tackled him, cuffed him, dragged him away.

He looked at me with empty eyes.

“I loved you,” he lied.

“No,” I replied. “You loved the price tag.”

That sunrise, Sarah and I sat on a quiet Batangas beach.
I stood beside the driftwood fire, trembling.

I removed my ruined wedding gown.

Dropped it into the flames.

Satin curled and blackened—my fairy tale burning into nothing.

Sarah wrapped a wool blanket around me and held me close.

“You know,” I whispered, tears finally falling, “I thought you were jealous. I thought you hated my happiness.”

She gave me a tired, sad smile.

“Maya… I never wanted you unhappy. I just wanted you alive. You don’t need a prince. You need your sister.”

We watched the sun rise, dissolving the last shadows of the night.

The fairy tale had been a trap.

But I had something far stronger than a fairy tale—

I had the truth.
And I had the one person who would burn the whole world to save me.